Kings and Pawns
by Melancholic Misanthrope
Summary: Sam and Dean have an arguement that results in Sam's departure. Dean tries to rectify the situation, but instead finds himself in the Dreaming, with no clue as to what the hell is going on. Sandman X-over. Spoilers for 4.07.
1. Save Me

Dean practically kicked the motel door in, his hands too full and his mind to preoccupied to bother with opening it properly. He threw his duffel bag in the corner harder than necessary; anger oozing out of his pores. When he remembered the shotgun in his hand, he immediately put it down, lest he point it at Sam and do something he would never forgive himself for.

"What the hell was that, Sam?!" he asked his little brother, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level.

Sam came trudging in behind Dean, slowly making his way over the threshold, knowing what was coming next, and wanting to delay it as much as possible.

"What was what?" he sighed, knowing full well what it was.

"The thing back at the cemetery with that demon, Sam! I'm talking about you going all 'psychic boy' on his ass, when you promised me you would never do that again!" Dean shouted, unable to contain his frustration any longer.

"It was going to kill me, Dean!" Sam spat back, "I didn't know what else to do, alright?! I couldn't fight it with a goddamn knife!"

"Did you even try, Sam? Huh? Did you? Hell... you probably just threw that knife away just so you had an excuse!"

"Dean – I tried! Okay? I tried fighting it with the knife, but he was too strong for me. I did what I had to do!"

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, "What happens the next time, huh, Sam? When you're doing what you have to do? How long do you think Castiel's gonna wait before he does what he's gotta do - what God asked him to do?"

Sam sneered at the mention of his brother's guardian angel, the angel that brought his brother back from the fiery pits of hell. The angel that had threatened to "take care" of Sam. And not in a Roma Downey nurturing, supportive kind of way.

"Don't do that Sam." Dean said, waving a condemning finger in this brother's direction. "Don't just shrug this off as some kind of parking fine, like this is a first warning... This is the word of God. You don't stop using these evil, freaky powers of yours, God is gonna put a hit out on you... and I won't be able to save you." Dean trailed off towards the end, tears threatening to well up in his eyes.

Sam understood his brother's pain. He knew from personal experience what it was like to watch your brother die before your eyes – Dean knew it too, and Sam knew that Dean would do anything not to go through that again...

"Dean... I'm sorry. But my 'evil, freaky powers' saved my life. They exorcised a demon and sent it back to hell, they stopped Samhain from calling forth god knows what. And because of my abilities, because I sent Samhain back to hell, the angels didn't vaporise this town. I save thousands of lives Dean! I did a good thing – I'm not apologising for it."

"They're gonna kill you Sam!"

"I don't care Dean!! I don't care! I'm can do good things with this. I've stopped talking to Ruby, so can't blame her for influencing me anymore... And it's not like I'm about to go all vigilante and chase down every demon in a five mile radius, alright... But if it comes down to risking our lives or using my abilities to get us out of trouble – I've made my choice."

"You don't get it, do you Sammy?" Dean asked, his eyes pleading with his little brother to see what he saw, "These powers, these abilities of yours... it's not beer on tap. You can't just take a glass whenever you're thirsty... It's power. You either quit cold turkey, or you'll become addicted... you won't be able to stop."

"Like you'd know!" snapped Sam. He couldn't fathom how his brother, the person he knew him better than anyone else on the face of the earth couldn't understand what he was going through, "You have no idea what it's like! To have this power! To have this god forsaken prophecy hanging over your head! You have no fucking idea!!"

_CRACK!_

Dean and Sam stopped yelling at each other and stared at the mirror hanging on the wall. As the final hate filled syllable shot out of Sam's mouth the mirror cracked. It was just a small star crack in the middle of the mirror, but as the brothers stepped closer to inspect it, the cracks fanned out like bolts of lightning, racing each other to the wooden frame.

The brothers stared, open-mouthed, as the shattered mirror fell to the ground piece by tiny piece.

"Yeah... you're right." Dean said, staring at the damage his brother had unwittingly caused, "I don't know Sammy, and I don't wanna know..."

Dean stepped around his brother and walked out of the motel room. He got in his car and drove, leaving Sam alone in the motel room, staring at the million fractured reflections of his tortured face.

* * * * * * * * *

Dean sat at a bar nursing his whiskey, staring at the bottom of the glass. Every now and then he would tilt the glass to one side and watch the ice cubes as they swam through the whiskey, eventually melting and merging with the alcohol.

Dean was perfectly miserable in his own company, not wanting for anything else when a strange smell announced itself, fighting the overpowering stenches of tobacco smoke, piss, and stale beer. Dean tried to recover the memory of that smell from the fog of his drunken state, eventually settling for peach cobbler... but knowing that wasn't quite right.

The sound of heels clicking on sticky floorboards caught Dean's attention. He glanced up from his drink and in the filmy mirror behind the bar saw a woman walk past him. As she walked past his right shoulder she glanced upwards, the two stared at each other via their reflections for but an instant. Dean was hypnotised by her eyes - her pale yellow eyes. For a moment he feared the return of Azazel but he knew that these are not the same noxious yellow eyes that destroyed his family, but it deserved investigation none-the-less. He slid off his barstool and made his way down the bar, a hand reaching out to touch the woman on the shoulder.

"Excuse me..."

He trailed off as she met his gaze. Her eyes weren't yellow at all, they were green – light green maybe, but definitely not yellow. Light green eyes and wine soaked lips framed by dark chocolate curls.

"Can I help you?" the woman eventually replied, not sure what to make of Dean's strange advance.

Dean struggled to find the words to apologise, but they were lost in the darkness of his mind; tumbling over other words, words he would never have imagined himself saying... he wanted to tell her how much he wanted her, how he longed to taste her lips, to explore her body, inside and out. He wanted her to know all the ways he would pleasure her, how he could fulfil her every want, every need, every fantasy, should she give him a sign that she wanted him too.

"I'm sorry," however, was all that managed to escape his lips, "I'm sorry," he repeated, trying to focus, not on the smell of her perfume – _jasmine, not peaches. Why had he thought peaches_? – he reminded himself, but on the words he felt were required of him, "It's just... I saw your reflection in the mirror... thought you were someone I knew..." he said, scolding himself for being so pathetic, wishing the poet that resided in the deepest recesses of mind would make himself known and save him from his own ineptitude..

The woman smiled, her eyes dancing mischievously,

"No... You don't know me. Well, not yet, anyway," she said with a smirk.

Only then did Dean realise that his hand was still on her shoulder, her hand now placed gently over his, moving slowly down to his wrist as she stepped towards him. Dean returned her smirk in kind.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, as his pick up routine demanded.

"Actually," the woman replied, moving closer still, "I'm kind of _tired_ of drinking..."

The woman went up on the tips of her toes and kissed Dean, slowly at first, breathing in his essence, a hand reaching out and caressing his jaw line. As the kiss intensified Dean pulled the woman closer to him, until their bodies were pressed against each other. The woman moaned softly and eventually pried herself from Dean's embrace, giggling to herself as she caught her breath. She stepped back out of Dean's personal space, picked up her clutch purse from the bar top and took several steps backwards. Smiling, her eyes let Dean know in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him. She spun on her heel and walked through the bar door and into the cold night air. Dean stared after her, as though he could still see her through the walls of the dingy establishment. A dreamy smile appeared on his face, he couldn't believe what a lucky sonofabitch he was... couldn't remember the last time he picked up with so little effort... couldn't remember the last time he wanted someone – _a specific_ _someone_ – so badly.

Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and absentmindedly threw a creased ten dollar bill in the barman's direction before following the woman out, leaving his half empty glass of whiskey on the counter. The last of the ice cubes faded unassumingly into their amber background.


	2. Lost and Found

Sam sat on the edge of a motel bed, staring at the door until his eyes glazed over as he tried desperately to clear his mind of all his current, painful thoughts.

After Dean had left, slamming the motel door behind him, Sam had resigned himself to disposing of all the shards of mirror. He'd discovered a small broom and dustpan in the cupboard along with an ironing board whose cover had been burnt so many times it now threatened to crumble into dust with its next use. Sam pulled out the small metal waste paper bin out from under the table and placed it beside the glittering mess, then picked up the largest pieces and placed them in the trash. When all the pieces large enough to be picked up without slicing his fingers open were disposed of, Sam set to work with the broom and dustpan. He emptied the pan and repeated the process several times, knowing he was never going to get all of it, but that didn't stop him from trying.

He threw the dustpan and broom back into the cupboard and slammed the door shut after them, unsure why he should feel the need to take his frustrations out on an inanimate object. _Because an inanimate object can't bleed, can't feel pain, can't die.._. Sam wanted to take his anger out on something that would feel it, wanted to go out into the night and stalk the stalkers, exorcise some demons, make them scream... _That's wrong_, he told himself. Inflicting pain on anything, without a kill or be killed scenario, was wrong, immoral. Evil. And Sam was not evil, was he? _No_, he answered himself, _I'm not. I refuse to be. _

It was this line of thought that led Sam to sit on the edge of a motel bed, staring at the door until his eyes glazed over as he tried desperately to clear his mind. Sam blinked eventually; wiping away a few reflexive tears, and was about to attempt another world record stare-off when something caught his attention. It was his eye, reflected off the largest piece of mirror, staring back at him. Sam reached over and pulled it out of the bin, wincing slightly as it screeched in agony at being separated from its siblings. Sam held the piece in front of him gazing at cold eyes that stared right back, merciless and unflinching, eyes that had seen so much… Eyes that had watched loved ones die, lives destroyed, families broken… Eyes that had seen the light in another's fade – the darkness wrought with his own hands. He had caused so much damage in his short life, so much guilt and pain. Some days Sam wished it would all…

"Ow! Shit!" Sam looked down at the small bloodied indent in his thumb. Raising it to his mouth, he sucked gently to prevent any further blood loss. He glanced down at the piece of mirror, watching a droplet of blood succumb to gravity and run down the length of glass, splitting his reflection in half.

Sam couldn't help but see the metaphor before him: a man divided, broken. He had so many people – angels, demons – telling him who he was, what he was… A brother, a son, a hunter, a psychic, an abomination, a monster, a killer. The goddamn Anti-Christ?!

Sam was pretty sure he didn't want to be most of those things. He didn't know if he could stand the responsibility of even his most treasured of roles anymore. He felt a weight on his chest, bearing down with increasing tenacity as all the doubts lurking in his mind finally found their voices.

"SHUTUP!" Sam roared at the empty room, throwing the mirror at the nearest wall, splintering it. This time he didn't bother to clean it up. Instead he busied himself around the motel room, collecting his clothes and other personal effects, shoving them into his duffle bag, removing the larger weapons when he ran out of space.

Sam slung his duffel over his shoulder and stood at the motel door, hesitating. He looked around the room at all his brothers' possessions and wondered how long it would take Dean to stop looking for him. Sighing, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat, Sam walked out of the motel room and walked through the empty carpark, gravel crunching beneath his shoe, sadness clutching at his heart.

***

Dean lay awake, sheets pulled this way and that, twisted around his naked body, a sleeping goddess to his left. He was exhausted and well and truly sated but his mind found it impossible to switch off. He was worried about Sam, worried about how he had left things. He wanted to go back to the motel and talk it out with Sam but knew he was never going to be able to be calm and rational about such weird, scary ass topic: Don't use your demonic powers or an angel will kill you. Dean snorted softly to himself; it was just too bizarre to even get his mind around it.

He tried desperately to push the thoughts to the back of his mind and rolled onto his side and focused all his thoughts on... _uh... M. It started with an M. Moira? What?! No... Mmm... More. Morgan! Morgan wants more_, he thought with a smirk. He couldn't stop smiling as he thought back to a few hours earlier when she asked him if he wanted to play a game.

They were lying together after round one, catching their breath, when she suggested it: Find the tattoos. She told him she had seven. Tattoos One through Five were pretty easy, he thought as his fingertips grazed number four – an elaborate pentagram at the crossroads of her spine and shoulders. Six was slightly harder to find, a Chinese symbol for "lost" tucked away behind her left ear. But seven, he never found seven, but he didn't mind as he was rewarded for his other successful discoveries.

He moved closer to her, a hand resting on her hip, and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her essence. That goddamn perfume still lingered, that irresistibly sweet smell of jasmine that took him back to summer vacations – the few that his father allowed him to enjoy – and all the time he spent chasing tail down at the local watering holes. Young, carefree – happy. Dean chuckled, _all those memories from a frigging flower..._

He kissed her neck, here, and there, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He pulled back and looked again, trying not to wake her. He broke out his 100 watt smile when he realised his victory; Lucky Number 7. It was right there, literally under his nose, hidden under her hair at the nape of her neck. He couldn't make out what it was without turning on a light, but it was definitely a tattoo.

"I found it..." he whispered to her, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Morgan, hearing him from somewhere deep in her subconscious, murmured a reply, rolling over in bed. She snuggled up to him, for warmth or for comfort, Dean didn't really mind which.

He took Morgan's hand in his and placed it on his chest and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him. And there, on a beautiful stranger's bed, Dean Winchester dreams.

***


	3. Darkly Dreaming

***

At first there was nothing but darkness, but as he stepped back he realised it is just the colour of the walls. Deep blue marble highlighted with grey swirls, as though God had be smoking the day he made this particular rock.

He took another step back and turned to his right. He found himself in an impossibly long hallway of infinite doors. Some wood, some metal, some stone. Some looked like the slightest breeze would knock them down, others made you fearful of what could possibly be behind a door with so many locks.

Dean picked a direction and walked. He walked for what seemed like an eternity and was eventually rewarded with a corner. The hallway was much the same as the last one except only one side was lined with doors. The other half was consumed by enormous stained glass windows, each depicted – in more colours than Dean could name – a different sombre character.

Dean walked, awestruck by the sheer magnificence of the coloured glass mosaics. He paused in front of one. There are very few colours used in it; mostly varying shades of black and grey. Dean stared at the window, at the stained glass portrait of a pale woman dressed in black. The image triggered a memory that never existed, Dean couldn't explain why but he knew he had seen her before.

"Can I help you, sir?" a voice asked.

Dean's thoughts dissipated as he turned from the window to face a large stone archway. Beneath it stood a tall, fussy looking man. He seemed even taller than Sam, if such a thing was possible, but this being a dream Dean was of the opinion that anything was possible. The man stared accusingly at Dean over his antique spectacles.

"What?" Dean asked, unable to get over the weirdness surrounding him.

The man sighed and muttered something about "youths" and "manners".

"What are you doing here?" he asked pointedly.

"I don't... I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Dean asked, hoping for answers.

"Of course you are. You're in the Dreaming. You can't be in the Dreaming if you aren't."

"Right..." _How about answers that make sense..._

"You really shouldn't be in here though. I doubt the Master would approve. What is your name?"

"Ah... Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Ah!" replies the man, brightening somewhat, "I've read some of your work. A little heavy on the pornography for my tastes, but still..."

"What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you?" Dean asked, his patience wearing thin.

"I do apologise... I am Lucien, the Librarian." He said dramatically, gesturing behind him at a room of impossible proportions that housed a forest of bookshelves.

"Whoa," Dean muttered as he stepped into the room, straining his neck in an attempt to see the top of the first book shelf, "...Sam would love this."

"That would be one Samuel Winchester, yes?" Lucien asked, although Dean felt that he already knew the answer. Dean took a few steps further into the giant library, fully aware that Lucien was following him around, in true custodian style, to ensure that he didn't touch anything. "I must say I loved his piece, "My brother, My hero". Very moving. I'm sure he would have received an "A" for it, had he only been able to hand it in..."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked again, hoping for a sane reply.

"This is the Library of the Dreaming. Here, every book that was never written is stored. I was referring to your brother's 3rd grade creative writing assignment. He thought up a wonderful story, but as your father relocated you both soon after the assignment was given Sam never bothered to write it down... so it's kept here."

Dean looks at the librarian with disbelief, snorting, "Sam wrote a book?"

"No." Lucien replied testily, "You're not the smartest dreamer, are you?" Ignoring Dean's death stare Lucien repeated himself, "This is the Library of the Dreaming. All the stories that were ever thought of, ever dreamt of, all those fleeting ideas get stored here before they are lost forever. Sometimes I lend them out to other residents of the Dreaming as most of them are quite enjoyable. Yours aren't to everyone's taste... although Merv's a big fan of yours... I'm not sure whether you should take that as compliment or not." He mused.

"Dude, you must have me confused with someone else..." Dean replied, trying to find a thread of sanity, "I've never written a story in my life – not even for an English assignment."

Lucien smiled smugly and wandered off through the shelving, Dean followed. Eventually Lucien paused in front of a shelf, no different to any other and waited. Dean stared at him, wondering what he could possibly be waiting for when a ladder came skimming along the shelving, stopping directly in front of the librarian. Lucien climbed the ladder, oblivious to Dean's uneasiness, before carefully removing what appeared to be a comic book from the suffocating embrace of its leather-bound companions. Lucien stepped down from the ladder, straightened his pinstriped jacket before he reverently passed the comic book to Dean.

Dean stared at Lucien for a moment, trying to read the strange man's face to determine whether he believed all the crazy things he said. Dean glanced down at the book in his hands and turned it over; staring slack jawed at its glossy cover.

"'Dean Winchester and the Vampiric Bisexual Playboy Bunnies'," Lucien said, reciting the title for him, "'He loves them. He leaves them. In pieces.' Not the catchiest title in the world, but still..."

"Bu-bu-but..." Dean stammered, flicking through the pages, gawking at the illustrations, "But I never wrote this... I mean, yeah, I thought about it... but..."

"Just because you didn't write it down," revealed Lucien, carefully prying the comic from Dean's numb fingers, "Doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

Dean wanted to ask more questions but the sound of birds' wings interrupted his thoughts. He glanced upwards and spied a raven flying straight towards him. He resisted the urge to flinch, finding solace in the knowledge that this was a dream and nothing bad could happen to him. The bird pulled up at the last moment, perching itself on the ladder next to Lucien.

"Hello Matthew." Lucien said, apparently addressing the bird as put the comic book back on the shelf.

"Hiya Luce. How's it hanging?" the bird replied.

"Whoa... talking bird." Dean muttered.

"Just fine thankyou Matthew." Lucien noticed Dean's shock and tried to put him at ease, "Dean, this is Matthew, the Master's raven. Matthew, this is Dean Winchester, a dreamer who got lost."

"I know who he is." Matthew retorted, "Boss has me keepin' an eye on him and his brother."

"What?" Dean asked, his confusion overwhelming him.

"Oh really?" replies Lucien, "This is the one he was talking about?" he asked rhetorically. He gives Dean a sad look, "You poor man. I wouldn't want to trade lives with you for all the world."

"What the hell is going on? What are you talking about? And why is a talking bird stalking me and Sam?!" Dean shouted.

"Not stalking," Matthew replied, trying to defend himself, "Just watching. Boss asked me to. But your brother went off the radar, and you came here, so no point in staying out in the real world. Thought I'd come back here and wait for the boss to return."

"What are you talking about? Where's Sam?" Dean shouted at the bird.

"Dunno." Matthew shrugged, or at least the ornithological equivalent of shrugging, "One minute he was there, same as you... the next he wasn't. Either he's got friends in weird places, or he really doesn't wanna be found."

Dean started to back away from Lucien and Matthew, heading for the exit.

"How do I get out of here? Where's the fucking exit?" Dean shouted, panic gripping him tight.

"Calm down buddy. You'll get out when you wake up." Matthew replied, as if it was the simplest concept on earth.

"I gotta find Sam. SAMMY!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the cavernous darkness.

"Oi! fuckwit!" Matthew cawed over the echo, "He's not here! Stop freaking out about it!"

"Shut up you stupid bird!" Dean spat back, "I gotta find Sam. SAM!!!"

Dean ran from the library, its creepy custodian, and the foulmouthed raven, and back down the marble hallway. He turned the corner and began running back the way he thought he came. Up ahead a door, previously thought to be locked, opened of its own accord. Dean didn't stop to think about what was on the other side of the door, blinding running over the threshold and into darkness.

The door slammed shut.


	4. Running Away

Sam stared up at the departures board, trying to decide whether to base his destination on which flight left sooner, or which destination was further away. He'd dismissed the idea of stealing a car because, although that would have been convenient for him in the short term, it would have ended up being more trouble than it was worth. And he hadn't even bothered with buses, as it would have been way too easy for Dean track him down, and once Dean had a direction to drive in no Greyhound was ever going to out run the Impala.

Sam felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Dean so suddenly but felt in his heart that it had to be done. All this worry, all this anger and frustration... Sam knew if he took himself out of the picture, forced himself to ignore the looming threat... Maybe Dean would be able to get back to basics, simplify. "If it's evil, kill it", and not have to worry about what side of the war his forsaken little brother would end up on.

Yep, he was making the right decision. By taking himself away from this mess, no "boy king" crap to deal with... everything would be simpler. He nodded his head subconsciously, agreeing with his own arguments as he selected his flight out of Chicago; it left within the hour and went damn near half way across the country. It'd be a week, at best, before Dean even reached Miami, but it didn't matter, Sam wouldn't be there when he arrived anyway.

***

Somewhere in the darkness of his mind a door slammed shut and Dean woke with a start.

"Sam!"

He was sitting bolt upright in bed, a shocked but genuinely concerned Morgan beside him, one hand resting on the tattoo on his chest, the other running its fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him.

"Hey, hey... shhhh... it's okay. You're awake now, it's all okay."

Dean stared into her pale green eyes and felt his unease start to melt away, along with the memories of his dream.

"Sorry..." he managed in between gulping air, "Sorry if I scared you... I didn't mean to."

"Jesus Christ, Dean..." she muttered, hand pressed on his chest, "You heart's about to leap out of your chest, are you okay?"

"Yeah..." Dean replied weakly, "Just a nightmare. I'm fine."

"You sure?" she asked, hand still stroking his hair.

"Yeah..." Dean said straightening up, adjusting the sheet to create a bit of modesty, "Listen, I gotta go." He said simply, bending over to get his boxer briefs off the floor. He put them on and started walking around Morgan's bedroom collecting the rest of his clothes, quickly putting them on.

The dream had already faded away but the feeling in the pit of his stomach remained. He needed to see Sam as soon as possible, talk it out, or not, just get in the car and drive and soon the awkward silence would become a comfortable one and they'd save their impending argument for another day.

"You sure you're okay? You know you don't have to leave right this second. You could have a shower, have some breakfast? Coffee at least," Morgan implored, kneeling on the bed, pulling a bed sheet up to her chest. It barely covered her breasts and Dean found his eyes wandering from there down to her tiny waist and the curve of her hips. "I'm sorry," Morgan said, shaking her head and brushing the stray chocolate strands from her eyes, "I don't mean to sound needy, it's just that you seem kinda freaked out – are you _sure_ you're ok?"

Dean paused as he adjusted the collar on his leather jacket and glanced over at Morgan for a moment. She looked unbelievably sexy; her dark curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her emerald orbs were wide with concerned. Dean considered shedding the jacket immediately and walking over to comfort her and then some. He would quite happily spend the day in Morgan's bed, and the next day, and the next... but he couldn't.

"No, I'm not ok," he replied truthfully, "I had a fight with my brother before I ended up in that bar last night. I just had a really bad dream. Something..." Dean mumbled, trying to cling to the remnants, "Something bad happened, I think. I don't know," he said, hating himself for sounding so weird, "I just know I gotta go talk to my brother, make sure he's ok."

He glanced at Morgan solemnly as he backed out of her bedroom. Without another word he left, the front door slamming behind him. Morgan knelt on her bed for a few moments, shocked that any man could simply walk away from her naked body. Eventually she started breathing again and removed herself from the bed, covering herself with a crimson kimono. She opened a drawer in her bedside table and pulled out a small ornament, a silver heart, and walked to her bathroom and stood before the bathroom mirror. Morgan held the small silver trinket before her, almost like an offering, and flicked the top half revealing it to be a cigarette lighter. She ran her thumb over it and with a _click_ a small green flame appeared. Morgan held it out to the mirror and a cigarette materialised to accept the offer of a light.

"You failed," stated a creamy voice from the other side of the mirror.

"I know. I'm sorry Mistress." Morgan replied to the now smoke filled room.

"You should have handcuffed him to the bed," the voice continued, a twinge of venom now audible in its melodic words.

"But..." Morgan stammered, torn between being honest and enraging her invisible employer, "But that wouldn't be of his own free will. You said... you told me I was just supposed to make contact and his lust would take care of the rest."

"I also said..." the disembodied voice replied, cutting Morgan like a knife, "That I wanted to win - at any cost. And you, my pathetic temptress, were supposed to ensure my victory. But since I can't even trust you with keeping a man in your bed for more than 10 hours I have no further use for you..."

"No Mistress please!" Morgan begged, clutching at her heart as the pain of the dismissal became unbearable.

"Morgan, you remember my sister..."

"No please..." Morgan pleaded, tears began streaming down her face as a dark voice whispered to her of all her failures, of how useless she was, how undesirable, how everything would be better if her presence was erased from the face of the earth.

Morgan blinked away her tears and stared at her reflection in the mirror, a new resolve on her face. She returned to her bed, holding the lighter in her hands, staring at the neon flame. Without a seconds hesitation she dropped the lighter onto her bed sheets, staring at it with a calm eerie smile and waited for the flames to ease her pain.

On the other side of the mirror, in a realm of mirrors, Desire stood beside her twin and watched as green flames devoured her minion, an eerie smile playing on her face.

"Hello, anyone here?" a cheery voice called out. Its black boots crunched on the blackening floorboards, its skin did not flinch at the heat of the fire. It walked around the edges of the bedroom its eyes on the charred body of Morgana Nesky as it lay lifeless on what remained of the mattress.

"She killed me," Morgan's soul whispered, "I did everything she ever asked of me... and she killed me."

"I know Morgan," Death replied, smiling sadly, "Desire can be very cruel." Death turned and glared at the now vacant mirror, "Come on, let's get you out of here."


End file.
